


I'm Taking my Time

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Real Hockey (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually when Jack’s skyping with Parson, he closes his door.  But because Shitty’s in class, and Ransom and Holster went to Murder Stop and Shop to stock up for the kegster, Jack’s door is open, and as soon as Bitty opens the front door (locked, to protect against the lax bros in the absence of most of the hausmates), he can hear Jack’s, and Parson’s, voices floating down the stairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minyrrds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyrrds/gifts).



> I tried to fulfill both request prompts in one fic!! "bitty/parse - literally anything about them getting together that's happy" and "bitty/parse/jack - bitty realizes jack is still in love with parse and thinks parse is pretty cute too" so I hope you like it!!!!
> 
> thanks to joelwards on tumblr for betareading/cheerleading!!
> 
> chapter 5 is "hockey shit" that explains real hockey references.
> 
> (the very first part was published as a ficlet on tumblr - the rest is entirely new)

Usually when Jack’s skyping with Parson, he closes his door.  It’s almost always in the middle of the day, too - Bitty knows that Jack doesn’t like staying up late, and he guesses that Parson needs his sleep, too, to play professional hockey.  And that’s also when mostly everyone’s out of the haus.  Bitty’s only back because his math professor had to cancel class - her babysitter cancelled, she said in her email to the class, and Bitty made a note to send her his info and availability.

But anyway.  Usually, Jack closes his door.  But because Shitty’s in class, and Ransom and Holster went to Murder Stop and Shop to stock up for the kegster, Jack’s door is open, and as soon as Bitty opens the front door (locked, to protect against the lax bros in the absence of most of the hausmates), he can hear Jack’s, and Parson’s, voices floating down the stairs.

“I don’t know how you even remember him.”  That’s Jack, sounding irritated.  Well, more irritated than he usually does.  He’s been less irritated with Bitty lately, but he still remembers what that tone of voice sounds like, how Jack’s accent sharpens.

“C’mon Jack.”  Parson’s voice doesn’t send shivers down Bitty’s spine in exactly the same way it did at the end of fall semester, when he heard Parson saying all those awful things to Jack through the _closed_  bedroom door.  The two’ve them have made up since then, when the Aces made another swing East and Parson came to hash everything out with Jack.  Bitty shivers a little, remembering the shouting he’d heard from across the hall, muffled by the surprisingly selective soundproofing in the haus.  But they’d emerged friends again, and Bitty had made them breakfast in the morning, and Parson had smiled and called him sweet cheeks and Jack had just rolled his eyes fondly.

“Seriously, Kent, you only met him once?”

“ _Twice_ , actually.”                                      

“When you played the Bruins in February, and…?”

“That, what did those two call it?  The big party when you and I…”

“Epikegster.”

Bitty frowns and creeps closer to the foot of the stairs.  Who could they be talking about?  Someone Parson met at Epikegster, and saw again in February?  Well, pretty much the entire school came by for Epikegster, so that doesn’t narrow it down much.  But February was the Parson-Zimmermann Broship Agreement (as Shitty called it), and Parson had run into fewer people at Samwell that time.  Really only the team - and whoever he saw when he was actually in Boston.

“So, what?  You think you know him because you met him twice?”

“I met him, Jack, you can drop the protective act, all right?  I’m not sayin’ anything.”

“Parse.”

“What?”

“ _Parse.”_

“ _What_?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Parse!”

“What?!”

“I’m serious!”

“No, you’re Jack Zimmermann.”

Bitty has to slap his hand over his mouth to stop from laughing.  He’s halfway up the stairs, stepping as close to the wall as he can so the steps won’t squeak.  He’s not sure why its so important that he gets to hear this.  They aren’t talking about anything that important.  Why does he care what  _Kent Parson_  has to say?  The first time he’d met him, he’d completely destroyed Jack, and sure he’d come back and mended their friendship (broship) but Bitty just didn’t know if he could trust him yet.  Sure, he’d fed him pancakes, but he hadn’t made him  _pie_.  And of course Parson was attractive.  Bitty had seen last year’s Body issue, thank you very much.  But that didn’t mean much if the inside of him was a stinking pile of shit.

“Kenny, come on.”

Bitty hears Parson sigh.  He holds his breath.

“Jack, you know me.  I’m not good at this feely stuff.”

“Start being good at it.”

“Jack!”

Oh, he’s whining now.  Bitty grins, barely holding back a giggle.  Now  _that_  is adorable.

“I’m not going to help you if you whine.”

“I’m not asking for help!”

“You’ll want it, if you want a chance with him.”

_Him._ A blanket of tension, stretching from Jack’s room to Bitty at the top of the stairs, falls over them.

“There’s just something about him, Jack.  I don’t know.  Even when he was looking at me like I was a fucking monster, I still… there’s just  _something_.  I’ve been watching your games, you know, we talk about them, and that kid’s fucking insane.  And I don’t mean good insane.  I mean, like, what the fuck is he doing?  How does he come up with this shit?  I can’t believe it.  Every time I see some play he’s just -  _man_ , it’s fucking unbelievable.”

“He was a figure skater, and then he played coed.”

Bitty’s hands fly to his mouth.  They’re talking about him.   _They’re talking about him._

“And when you show me those pies - geez, Jack.  There’s something about that kid.  I can’t help it.  But - you saw, when he was making breakfast and I was trying to flirt with him and he was giving me the cold shoulder, there’s no way.  I’m always gonna be the guy shouting at you in your bedroom.”

Bitty slumps back against the wall, his eyes wide.  That was  _flirting?_   Parson actually wanted to _flirt_  with him?

“He’s not gonna just jump into your arms.”

“I wish he would.”

“ _Parse_.”

“C’mon, Jack!  Can you blame me?  You’ve seen that ass more than I have!  And you should see his twitter.  He talks about it all the time -  _fuck_ , you have no idea.”

Bitty blushes, hard, and thunks his head back against the wall.  It’s not until everything goes quiet in Jack’s room that he realizes what a bad mistake he’s made.

“Is anyone home with you?” Parson asks.

“No, Shitty and Bitty have class, and Ransom and Holster went shopping,” Jack says, but he sounds confused, and Bitty can hear his chair sliding over the floor.  Bitty swallows and, quickly, walks over to Jack’s half-open door, popping his head in.

“Hi, Jack!” He says brightly, hoping his face isn’t too red.  He pretends to notice Parson on the screen, and says, “Oh, hi, Parson.”

“How long’ve you been home?” Jack asks, just as Parson says, “Hey, sweet cheeks.”

“Just got in,” Bitty replies, and he tries to swallow down the babble, but it comes out anyway.  “My math professor had to cancel class because she couldn’t find a babysitter - and you better believe I’m gonna send her my number, her children are adorable - so i was just able to come right home after my other class.”

Jack frowns for a second, and looks at his watch.  Bitty grips the door tighter.  Jack knows pretty much everyone’s class schedule, for the sake of scheduling practices; he knows that Bitty’s earlier class ended 25 minutes ago, and it definitely wouldn’t take him that long to get back to the haus from there.

“Well I’ll let y’all get back to talkin’, I’ll be bakin’ a pie if you need me, Jack,” Bitty says quickly.

Before he can duck back into the hall, Parson asks, “What kind of pie are you making?”

“Uh,” Bitty starts, staring at Jack’s laptop screen.  Parson’s very shirtless.  His eyes are very blue.  “Blueberry, if I’ve got enough blueberries.”

“Sounds great.”  He has a nice smile, too.  It’s… sweet.

Bitty blushes and nods, and says quickly, “If you keep on bein’ nice to Jack, maybe I’ll send one out to you in Vegas,” before scurrying back down to the kitchen.

He takes a second, once he’s there, to sit at the table and stare at his hands.

“Kent Parson has a crush on me,” he says under his breath, then louder, “Kent Parson has a big ol’ crush on me.”  He grins, and goes to look for blueberries.

 

 

Usually, Kent and Zimms skype once a week.  Because of Kent’s games and practices and media obligations and Zimms’s classes and games and meetings with GMs they can’t figure out any sort of regular schedule, but they always manage once a week.

They skyped almost every day in the week before the trade deadline.  They’d only reconciled at the beginning of the month, but Kent was too fucking terrified of leaving Vegas to worry about being overbearing.  He was too fucking _relieved_ to have Zimms back.

(And maybe one time he screwed up the time difference and Zimms had this hilariously grumpy face because it was 11:30 at night but what _ever_ Zimms didn’t mind that much)

So Kent feels a little weird about skyping Zimms three days after the last time,  but at least he has the excuse of the battle for that last wildcard space (the Aces are barely holding on and Kent needs someone to tell him he’s not a miserable shitstain of a captain) even if it’s not really about that.

“We talked on Wednesday” is how Zimms opens, frowning at his laptop.  Kent can see the glimmer of amusement in Zimms’s eyes, though, so, cool.

“Guess what I got in the mail,” Kent says.

“We’re not playing this game.”

“No, I mean—” Kent holds up his plate, with half a piece of blueberry pie still on it, so that Zimms can see it through the computer.  “This is the last piece.  My nutritionist is gonna kill me.”

Zimms cracks a smile, ducking his head and huffing out a laugh like he can’t let anyone see him experiencing a human emotion.

“Just try living with him,” Zimms tells him, shaking his head.  His lips curl up at the corners – it’s a smile, but not the normal Jack Zimmermann smile.

Kent sees it now.

“He bakes shit like this all the time?”

“All the time.”

“Just pies, or—?”

“Everything.”

Kent whistles.  “Wow.  Should get him to send me some of that, too.”

Zimms hums, and Kent sees it again.

Kent knows what people say about him.  He doesn’t read his twitter replies or Instagram comments anymore, but it’s the journalists, too, and the Aces’s PR people.  But his hockey IQ is the shit, so it doesn’t really come from management or the coaches, thank fuck.

But the point is – people say Kent’s stupid, that he doesn’t know how to function as a human member of society (and that Aces house tour video _really_ didn’t help), and they say that he can’t even get his teammates to genuinely like him even though they’re sort of required to.

(Kent can read the writing on the wall, and he knows when he’s an RFA next summer that he’ll see an offer to captain the Pens before he sees an offer sheet from the Aces, and it’d be a miracle if he made it that long without being traded – the Aces aren’t going to let him slip away without getting something for him.  As far as he’s concerned, the Cup ring’ll just make other teams want him more).

But Kent can fucking read people, okay, and he can read Zimms, and when he sees that look in Zimms’s eyes and that smile on his face—

That was aimed at Kent, in the QMJHL.  It’s like an elbow to the head to see Zimms like that about someone else.  It’s being crushed into the boards and wrangled to the ice to see Zimms like that about someone Kent might, y’know, _like_.

“Is that all you called about?” Zimms asks, leaning back in his chair.  He’s wearing an old, worn-soft Rimouski Oceanic shirt, and Kent aches.

He also feels a little warm, with how the shirt stretches over Zimms’s muscles, because _damn_.

“No,” Kent says, a little belated.  “There’s the standings.”

Zimms’s face softens, all at once.  “Kenny…”

“Won the Cup last year and we might not even make the playoffs.”

“Just like the Kings,” Zimms tells him.  “Without the other Cup, you know.”

Kent rolls his eyes so hard that it’s actually almost hurts a little.

“Really, Kenny,” Zimms continues.  “The Preds are two points behind you, and you’ve been trending up.  The Yotes aren’t gonna even come close, so it’s just you and the Preds.  They’ve only won two of their last six games…”

Kent sinks back in the couch and lets Zimms’s voice wash over him.  He could listen to Zimms talk hockey for hours – has, in the past, done exactly that.  Especially when its Zimms talking about the Aces making the playoffs.

If Kent’s going to have to leave Vegas, he’s gonna leave it with another fucking Cup, just in case he winds up somewhere like Edmonton (as if they need another first overall).

“Kenny.  Kenny.  _Parse_.”

“What?” Kent groans, stretching his arms up over his head.

“You know you’re gonna do fine,” Zimms says, when he’s sure he has Kent’s attention. “Just keep your head in it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent grumbles, scratching the back of his head.  “I know, I’m awesome.”

Zimms ducks his head to hide his grin, again, and Kent opens his mouth, he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say but the sun’s coming in through the blinds behind Zimms and he’s wearing _their team’s shirt_ and Kent has to say something—

Kit Purrson jumps up on the arm of the couch, right next to Kent’s head, and meows right in his ear.

“Hi, Kit,” Zimms says, all soft and quiet.

“Say hi to Zimms,” Kent tells Kit, picking her up and holding her facing the screen.  Her ears twitch back, and she meows.

Zimms looks delighted.

“I’ve gotta go feed her,” Kent says, rubbing his cheek on Kit’s head.

“I’ve got to meet Bittle at Annie’s,” Zimms replies – and there’s that look again.

“Oh!” Kent says suddenly, stopping Jack from closing his computer.  “Good luck in the Frozen Four.  You’re gonna kill it.”

Zimms smiles at him, all dopy and pleased.  Fuck.

“Thanks, Kenny.”

They close the call, and Kent pads into the kitchen with Kit on his heels to pull her dry food out of the cabinet.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling – jealousy, maybe, that Bittle gets to spend time with Zimms, or maybe because that Zimms gets to spend time with Bittle.  A renewed sense of hope that the season isn’t quite done, even if his time in Vegas almost is.

 

 

Jack gets back from his morning run and takes a bottle of water from the fridge.  He has to take out a couple pounds of butter to reach the water, but it fills him with fondness more than exasperation.

He sits at the kitchen table and drinks half the bottle, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

The sun rose while he was out on his run, and now it’s peeking in through the curtains Bittle and his mother picked for the window.

This early morning time is one of Jack’s favorites.  No one else is awake yet, and the haus is quiet, but there’s still the sense that there are other people around, peaceful and sleeping.

Jack hears a door open and shut, and soft footsteps on the stairs.  Bittle turns the corner into the kitchen and pauses for a minute, his eyes twitching wide, before a smile blooms on his face.

“Morning, Jack!” Bittle drawls, heading to the fridge and pulling out things for breakfast.  “Gonna be a nice day out?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and takes a sip of water.  He watches Bittle at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking in milk and salt and pepper.  “What’s for breakfast?”

Bittle looks back at Jack over his shoulder, eyebrow raised and teasing smirk on his lips.  “Who said any’a this is for you, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“You do need more protein,” Jack says, straight-faced, and only lets a smile sneak through when Bittle scowls at him.

“I’ll show you protein,” Bittle mutters, whisking the eggs vigorously.

Jack takes a sip of water.

And then his mouth gets ahead of his brain, or the little sliver of Bittle’s skin between his shorts and his sweatshirt when he stretches up for a pot on the second shelf of the cabinet distracts him, because Jack says, “You sent a pie to Parse.”

Bittle freezes, stretched up on his tiptoes.  Slowly, he falls flat on his feet and turns to face Jack.  Jack’s mind whirs, trying to think of something else to say, before Bittle finally faces him.

“He got it all right, then?” Bittle asks evenly, his face blank.

Jack’s good at reading people; it’s a byproduct of the anxiety.  He can see the little wrinkle between Bittle’s brows, the flick of his hand.

“He ate the whole thing,” Jack says, and he can’t help the twist of his mouth.

Bittle’s eyes go wide.  Jack can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Oh,” Bittle says, and turns back to the eggs.

“He really liked it,” Jack says, trying to diffuse the awkward tension settling over the room.  No kitchen with Bittle in it should feel like that.  “He wants cookies next.”

Bittle huffs.  “Like I’m gonna bake whatever he wants, at his beck ‘n call.”

But Jack can see a tint of red on his cheeks.

“He remembers you.”

Why does Jack keep talking about Parse?  Why does he keep bringing him up?  Why—?

“That’s nice.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do with this.  It’s been at least a year since they were so awkward; Jack really, really doesn’t want to go back to that.  But he can’t figure out what it is that’s making Bittle tense up, keep his back turned to Jack—

_You keep bringing up Parse, you idiot_ , Jack thinks, and twists the cap onto his bottle.

He knows that Bittle heard at least a little of him and Kent talking.  He thinks maybe it was more than he guessed.

“Food’ll be about a half hour,” Bittle says without turning around.  “I’ll send an email when it’s done.  Nursey and Dex were talkin’ about comin’ over so Holster could help’em with their stats work.”

“All right,” Jack says, and stands up.  He’s good at telling when he’s not wanted.


	2. April

They don’t make the playoffs.

Kent can see the offseason stretching out in front of him.  Last year he was playing into June – last year he won it _all_ – and now –

He stays in Vegas for a bit, does his exit interview.

He skypes Zimms right after.

“Kenny,” Zimms says softly, as soon as the call connects.

Kent maybe looks a little pitiful, he guesses.  He’s curled up in bed, under the blanket his mama knit him and the down quilt he bought rookie year.  He’s got one of his old Rimouski shirts on, and Kit Purrson’s curled up next to his head and purring.

“They’re gonna trade me,” Kent replies.

The screen whirls, and when the feed settles, Zimms is leaning back in his bed, too.

“They’re not gonna trade you,” Zimms tells him.  “You won a Cup last year.  They’re not going to just—”

“Trade their captain?” Kent asks, and snorts.  “Yeah, that never happens.  Richards never got traded, and neither did Jagr, or Thornton, or Gretzky fucking _twice_ , or Callahan and St. Louis _in the same fucking deal_ —”

“Kenny,” Zimms says sternly.  It reminds him so much of Zimms’s captain voice, from Major Juniors, that Kent can almost taste the arena corn dogs and shitty beer that Piche bought them.  “The Kings didn’t trade Brown last year.  The Canes haven’t traded Staal after how many times missing the playoffs?”

“I know,” Kent sighs.  “I know, Zimms, okay?”

Jack pauses for a moment, his lips twitching in the way they do when he’s trying to figure out exactly what to say.

“How’re your classes?” Kent says, before Zimms says something disgustingly encouraging or emotional and makes Kent cry all over his pillows.  He did that last night and he just changed his sheets this morning.  He also cried on Kit last night, and she did _not_ like that.

“My photography final’s coming up and I still have to pick the photos for my final portfolio,” Jack says, with that sideways glance that means he knows he’s opening himself up to chirping.

Kent doesn’t take advantage of it.  He can be nice sometimes, even to Zimms.

“It’s gonna be bomb,” Kent tells him.  “Send me some of them.”

Zimms frowns a little.  “Why?”

Obviously he still remembers when Zimms took those pictures with some fans after a Rimouski game and Kent printed them out and covered Zimms’s stall in them.

Honesty, then.

“I’ll need a new place when I get traded,” Kent says, “I’ll frame them and hang them up.  Need something to replace my view, right?”

Zimms looks at him, all sad big eyes and that little frown, and Kent groans.  He brought the subject back around to his trade.  Fuck.

“You’re an amazing player,” Zimms starts, and Kent braces himself for a Captain Zimmermann Encouragement Speech.  “Vegas isn’t the only place you can contribute.  Even if they trade you, which I still think they’d be stupid to do, you’ll be great for whichever team gets you.  I know you never pictured leaving, but – I’m saying from experience – sometimes the things we never thought would happen are the best things for us.”

Kent knows; Samwell was good for Jack.  The people at Samwell are good for Jack.  Bittle’s going to be good for Jack.

“Thanks, Zimms,” Kent says, pulling his blanket up to his chin.  “Seriously.”

“Any time,” Zimms replies.  “Oh, and Bittle said he won’t send you a cake because the icing won’t survive the shipping.”

“Zimms!” Kent groans, flopping back on the bed.  Kit growls at him when his hand flies too close to her.  “C’mon!  I deserve a cake!”

Zimms rolls his eyes.  “You’ll have to come here and get it then.”

Kent thinks about the media shitstorm if he ditches Vegas the day after locker cleanout and flies to Samwell, Massachusetts, especially when Zimms hasn’t signed anywhere yet (even though Kent knows he’s going to Providence, anyone that knows Zimms knows that).

“Fuck it,” Kent says, and starts looking up flights.

“Wait, really?” Zimms asks, his face hilariously shocked in the smaller skype window in the corner of Kent’s screen.  “Don’t you have—”

“No media until the awards in June,” Kent says, searching for direct flight to Boston.  “I’m free as a fuckin’ bird.”

“Then come out,” Zimms tells him.

It’s just an accidental word choice – but Kent thinks about it.  He thinks about looking into skype and telling Jack _I love you, and I like Bittle, and I don’t know what to do because I don’t know if I can choose_.  Like, please, Kent had his gay panic years ago.

“I’m coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine,” Kent sings.  Kit Purrson gets up, walking across his chest on her way off the bed.  Zimms laughs, his cheeks going red.

“I’ll be there 10 tomorrow morning,” Kent tells him, as he clicks _book seat_.  “You should probably let your boys know I’m stopping by.”

“I promise Shitty won’t try to punch you this time.”

“Jack!” Someone shouts from the background of Zimms’s side of the call.  “Jack, it’s time for froyo!  Get your ass into gear!”

“Go get your froyo,” Kent says.  “Is it Shitty dragging you out again?”

“And Bittle and Lardo,” Zimms replies.  “See you tomorrow.”

Kent’s going to see Zimms tomorrow.  In person.

And he’s going to see Bittle, and he’s going to see Bittle and Zimms together, and—

Okay, maybe this wasn’t the best plan.

 

 

“Bro!” Kent crows.  Jack opens his arms, anticipating the leaping hug that Kent’s always been a fan of.  “Zimms, you let me find out where you signed from _NHL.com?_ ”

“I didn’t tell anyone, if that makes you feel better,” Jack tells him, and Kent huffs against his neck.

It’s still a little chilly in Samwell at this time of year, but Jack doesn’t mind it.  Jack’s okay with standing on the front porch of the Haus in a t-shirt and old sweats – Kent’s in a leather jacket, a plaid button-down, and tight jeans.  Kent’s gotten used to living in a desert for most of the year; Jack should probably bring him inside.

“You signed and didn’t even tell anyone,” Kent says, and shakes his head.  “That’s the most you thing to ever happen, Zimms.”

“Close the door,” Shitty shouts from inside the house.  “I’m freezing my nuts off in here!”

“Put on some pants,” Jack calls back, grabbing Kent by the elbow and pulling him inside.  “We’ve got company.”

“Who the fuck—Parson?!” Shitty’s still sprawled out on the couch, but when Kent and Jack get to the entryway to the living room, he at least draps a hand over his crotch.  “Bro, sorry ‘bout your season.  You kicked ass all year.”

“Thanks,” Kent says dryly.  Jack knows Kent doesn’t like talking about losses after they happen, even the game 7 2OT loss three years ago in the Cup Final.  They weren’t really talking then, but Jack had gotten a lot of worried texts from old teammates (and some Aces) asking if Kent was okay, after he refused to talk about the game, or the series, or the playoffs at all.

“Jack, you didn’t tell me we were havin’ any company ton—” Bittle says as he’s coming out of the kitchen, a dishtowel in his hands.  Bittle freezes when he sees Kent, and Jack gets to watch, of course he does, as Kent turns around and catches sight of Bittle.

Jack looks away and tosses a pillow to Shitty to cover up with, but he can hear as Kent says, “’Sup, cutie,” and Bittle replies, “Kent!  Oh, I’m…”

Bittle’s covered in flour, and Jack had been sitting in the kitchen with him before – he knows Bittle’s got on a pair of shorts and a loose sweatshirt, an awkward adjustment to the weirdly high temperature the haus is kept at.

“Now I’ll get to see you in action,” Kent says.  Shitty throws the pillow back at Jack, and Jack gratefully takes the reprieve of stalking over to the couch and smushing the pillow into his face.

“There’s nothin’ really to see,” Bittle replies, and _that is his flirty voice_.  It’s the one he uses to talk to the objectively attractive barista at Annie’s.

“Brah,” Shitty cries out, pushing at Jack’s wrists.  Jack pulls the pillow back a little; he doesn’t actually want to suffocate Shitty, after all.

Jack looks back over to Kent and Bittle, and they’ve moved closer, and Kent’s got his hand on Bittle’s elbow, the way he does when he’s trying to pick up at a party.  Kent’s not too much taller than Bittle, but he’s using those few inches to his advantage, and Bittle’s going for it, leaning into him and grinning up at him.

Then Bittle notices Jack looking at them, and turns his grin to Jack, still too close to Kent to be really necessary.

“I’m gonna show Mr. Parson here how to make a proper pie,” Bittle tells Jack, gently smacking Kent in the middle of his chest.

“I’m ready to learn,” Kent replies, shooting a glance at Jack.

Jack sits on the couch next to Shitty.  “If you need to reach anything high up, come get me.”

Bittle laughs and rolls his eyes, and Kent tows him into the kitchen, and Shitty turns the tv to the History Channel without even asking.

“Wanna talk about it?” Shitty asks.

Jack stares at the tv – at the black and white photos scrolling across the screen, and some professor talking about World War II.

“No thank you,” Jack replies.

“I’m here when you need me,” Shitty tells him, patting Jack clumsily on the head.  “Got your back.”

 

 

 

“So,” Bitty says, pouring beans into the pie shell and popping it into the oven.  “Now you’ve just gotta let that bake, so it won’t get all wet when we put the filling in.”

Bitty stands up and turns around, wiping his hands on the stomach of his sweatshirt.  Parson’s leaning against the kitchen table, hands shoved in his pockets, and his eyes flick up to meet Bitty’s.  He looks… guilty?

Parson was staring at his ass when he was bent over the oven.  And Bitty knew Parson liked him, because of that skype call he overheard, but it’s different to hear it than it is to see it.

Sure, Jack’s been relaying messages between them for the better part of a month, but that’s not the same as _Kent Parson staring at his ass._

“See something you like?” Bitty asks, and Parson blushes.

Kent Parson is _blushing_ in Bitty’s kitchen!

“Someone,” Parson says.

Bitty doesn’t really know what he’s doing.  Parson is Jack’s, as much as one person can be another’s.  And Bitty’s thought about Parson – with those eyes and that hair, of course he has – but he can’t picture it actually happening.  The one thing he hasn’t been able to wrap his head around was that Parson is interested in him – a little gay kid from Madison, Georgia who can’t even take a check.

“I think I might see something I like,” Bitty says, after a beat.  He licks his lips and meets Parson’s eyes.  “Someone.”

Parson smiles – it’s different from the cocky grin that shows up in all the pictures the Aces put out, or the selfies he posts on Instagram.  It’s a soft smile, affectionate, a little hesitant.

For the second time, Bitty feels like he’s seeing the real Kent – not a self-assured superstar, but someone who just wants to be _liked_.

“Come here,” Kent says quietly, holding out a hand to him.  Bitty takes a step forward, and then another.  Finally he reaches the table, and puts his hand in Kent’s.  His hands are rough, like every hockey player’s, and warm.

“Kent,” Bitty says softly, helplessly.

Kent leans forward, hesitates an inch from Bitty’s lips, and then kisses him.

It’s Bitty’s first kiss.  It’s…

Kent pulls back, staring into Bitty’s eyes.

“Kent,” Bitty says again.

And Kent kisses him again, his arm hooking around Bitty’s waist and hauling him closer.  This time Bitty can really appreciate it.  He sinks against Kent’s chest – so firm, oh _Lord_ – and squeezes Kent’s hand, his other hand flying up to grip Kent’s bicep – Bitty had guessed it’d be nice to feel how solid and _thick_ Kent is.

_Jack’s bigger_ , his mind tells him, a traitorous thought sneaking through his head.  Bitty kisses Kent harder, relishing in the feel of Kent’s lips on his, Kent’s tongue sneaking past his lips, _Kent,_ not Jack.

The timer for the pie shell goes off, and Bitty jumps.

“The pie,” Bitty says.  Kent laughs softly, his hand sweeping over Bitty’s side as he lets go of him.

“What do we do next?” Kent asks.

Bitty clears his throat, stepping away from Kent, grabbing his oven mitts on the way to the oven.  “Well, that’s up to you, too, Pars – Kent, but I think the first step would be giving you my phone number, wouldn’t it?”

Kent laughs again, louder.  “I meant the pie, Bittle.  But yeah, I’ll take your number.”

Bitty flushes when he leans down to open the oven door.  This time he can feel Kent’s eyes on him, now that he can recognize the static tingle on the back of his neck, knows what it means

“You don’t have to call me by my last name,” Bitty says, when he’s turned away from Kent and feeling a little braver, with a pie in his hands.  “I mean, if you don’t want to.”

“Eric,” Kent says, and suddenly he’s closer, crossing the kitchen in a couple quick strides, his arms looping around Bitty’s waist.

“I’m holding a pie!” Bitty protests, putting it down on the counter before it winds up on the floor.

Kent just laughs, tucking his face into the crook of Bitty’s neck.  It’s – nice, to have this sort of intimacy on only their third meeting.  It’s surprising, but it fits seamlessly into Bitty’s picture of Kent – a man who’s so free with his affection and expects nothing in return.

Bitty pats Kent’s hand and leans back against him; Kent kisses his cheek, again and again, until Bitty turns his head and they’re kissing again.  Bitty could get used to this.

“Bittle, is—”

Bitty startles away from Kent, whipping around to stare wide-eyed at the door.

Jack’s there, his hand on the doorknob, his mouth hanging up.

“Jack,” Bitty squeaks.

Kent doesn’t let go of him.  If anything, his hold on Bitty tightens.

“Zimms,” Kent says, a little surprised, a little sad.

Jack closes his mouth, nods once, sharply, and turns to leave.

“Jack,” Bitty says again, pleading.  “Is this…”

“It’s fine,” Jack says, but he doesn’t turn around.  “You can do what you want, Bittle.”

Bitty swallows, and squeezes Kent’s hand when it sneaks down to hold his.  “Okay, Jack.”

_I want you_ , Bitty doesn’t say.  _I want Kent and I want you_.

Jack leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.  Kent squeezes Bitty’s hand, and pulls it up to kiss the back of it.

“It’s okay,” Kent says quietly.  Bitty looks up at him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.  “Me, too.”


	3. May

_Go really say goodbye._

Jack runs, without really thinking about it.  It’s difficult with his gown flying out behind him, and with all the people milling around Lake Quad, but he dodges them as easily as he does D-men on the ice, except—

“Whoa, watch where you’re going, Zimms!”

Kent had stayed for Jack’s graduation, once he realized how close it was.  Now he catches Jack’s shoulders, stopping Jack from slamming full-on into him.

“Save the checks for the ice, c’mon,” Kent says, grinning up at him and laughing.

And – that’s right.  Bittle and Kent are… something, he’s seen them kissing, and cuddling on the couch, and cooking together, and they seem like they can’t go 10 minutes without touching, even if it’s just their hands or their thighs pressed together and it makes Jack _ache_ because he wants that, too, and not just in general but with _them_.

It’s not just Bittle that he needs to say goodbye to.

“Kenny,” Jack gasps, grabbing hold of Kent’s wrists and squeezing.  “ _Kenny_.”

“Zimms—” Kent starts, and Jack leans forward, resting his forehead against Kent’s, those stupid shutter shades he’s wearing bumping into his nose.

He knows he can’t kiss Kent here, even though he wants to, _God_ does he want to.

“Kenny,” Jack whispers, like it’s the only word he remembers how to say.

Kent smiles, then, like he used to in the Q.  His smile spreads over his whole face, effuses his whole body.  When Kent smiles, _really_ smiles, it’s from the very core of him, from his soul, and it’s overpowering.

“I know,” Kent says.  They always understood each other.  Even after years apart, years of not speaking to each other, Kent still understands him.  “Zimms, I’m so _.._.”

“Bittle,” Jack manages to say, through the warring guilt and elation and fear coursing through him.

“At the haus,” Kent says, and lets go of Jack’s shoulders.  “He needs to know.”

Jack pauses for a moment, staring into Kent’s eyes, looking for any trace of uncertainty.  There isn’t any.

He starts running again, between the school buildings and off Samwell’s campus, down the street to the haus.  Jack slams in through the front door, startling Holster and Ransom on the couch.

“Bro—” one of them starts to say, but Jack runs past, up the stairs, his focus narrowing in on the open door.

“Bittle!” He calls, stumbling into the doorway of Bittle’s room.

His… empty room.

He stands there panting, braced against the door frame, trying to gather his thoughts enough to figure out where else Bittle would be – maybe he went to Annie’s, to get coffee for him and Kent, maybe he stopped by Murder Stop and Shop to get some more butter – when he hears it.

Crying.

He turns quickly, and in his – no, Chowder’s – room, Bitty’s hunched over the bed, folding the clothes Chowder had thrown in there before he had to catch his flight back to California.

“Bittle,” he says again, crossing the hall and striding into his old room.

“Hello!” Bittle yelps, whirling around and, when he sees it’s Jack, furiously wiping at his eyes.  “Hello!  Jack!”

Jack tries to think of something to say.  _I like you_ , maybe, or, if he’s being honest, _I love you_.  Maybe _I love Kent, too_ , or _I’m going to miss you so much even if I’ll only be an hour away_.

“Oh my goodness,” Bittle says, hands fluttering around Jack’s shoulders.  “Why are – is everything all right?  You’re outta breath!  You could’ve texted—”

“Bitty,” Jack says, and it’s the same as with Kent, he can’t think of anything else, just _Bitty Bitty Bitty_ over and over again, so he does the only thing he can think of, and leans in to kiss Bitty.

Bitty makes a soft noise of surprise against his lips, but he doesn’t pull away.  He sways closer, his hand pressing warm against Jack’s stomach through his shirt.  Jack cups his cheek, wanting to pull Bitty as close as he can, tell him through every point of contact that _this is okay_ and _I’ll never hurt you_ and _please love me too_.

He pulls back and then dives in again, kissing Bitty with every ounce of himself, putting everything into it that he wish he could’ve given Kent, too, out on Lake Quad.

And then his phone vibrates in his pocket, probably his dad wondering where to pick him up to go back to the hotel.

“That’s, uh, my phone,” he murmurs, pulling back from Bitty and tugging it out of his pocket.

It is his dad, a couple texts in a row:

_Me and mom at the car_ followed by three car emojis

_We can pick you up when ur ready_ followed by a thumbs up

_We can come back for you just let me know_

“I’ve gotta go,” Jack says, because he needs time to process this, to let it sink in that he can _have_ this, that it isn’t just a horrible mistake like so many other things—

“Okay,” Bitty replies, staring up at him with wide brown eyes.

“I gotta go, but I’ll text you, okay?” Jack says it, more of a promise to himself than to Bitty, that he won’t let this slip through his fingers.

“Okay,” Bitty says again, taking hold of Jack’s hands, because he _understands_.

Jack can’t help himself.  He leans in again and kisses him softly, their lips barely touching, before he pulls back and hurries to the door.

“I’ll text you,” he says again, already in the hallway.

“Okay,” Bitty says one last time, a little bit of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

Jack hurries down the stairs, starting to type a message to his dad before he’s even outside.

He runs into Kent at the door to the haus.

“I’ll text you,” Jack says to him, too.  “Kenny, I…”

“It’s all right,” Kent says, cupping the back of Jack’s neck.  “I know.”

Jack swallows, and – he needs to say it, he couldn’t to Bitty but for Kent –

“I love you,” he whispers, like it’s a secret.

Kent smiles.  “I know.  I love you, too.”

Jack nods quickly.  “I have to go.”

Kent leans closer for a beat, like he’s going to kiss Jack, and then sways back again.

“I’ll see you again before any of us leave town,” Kent promises, and lets go of him.

Jack speedwalks to the end of the block and texts his dad where to get him, and once he’s in the backseat of the car, he sends a text to Bitty and Kent:

_Coffee at Annie’s tomorrow?_

Bitty’s reply is immediate:

_Lunch at the haus.  Making quiche._

 

 

“All right, boys,” Bitty says, putting the quiche in the middle of the table.  “Who wants to start?”

Bitty looks at Kent, first, and then Jack.  They’re both sitting straight in their chairs – Kent in a tank and boxers and Jack in jeans and a t-shirt – and neither of them looks particularly eager to discuss their feelings.

Bitty sighs and sits down.  “I’ll just go first, then?”

“If you want,” Jack says neutrally.

Bitty rolls his eyes.  “Right.”

Kent clears his throat.  “If you don’t want to, Eric, I can.”

Bitty pats his hand gently.  “Don’t worry about it, Kent.  I don’t mind.”

And of course, now that he’s said that, he has to pause and really get his thoughts in order.  There are a lot of things he could say, and a lot of different ways he could say them.  It’d be easy to just ramble, start with meeting Jack freshman year, and then Epikegster when he’d met Kent, and February, when Kent came back again, and…

_Simple_ , he tells himself, _start simple_.

“I’ve had a crush on Jack since about the middle of Freshman year,” Bitty says, cutting a piece of quiche for himself and willing his hands not to shake.  “And I overheard y’all talkin’ in February, when Kent said he’s… attracted to me.  That time you saw us in the kitchen, Jack, that was the first time we…”

“Did anything,” Kent finishes quietly.

Bitty nods, and takes a bite of quiche.

“I’ve loved Zimms since we played together,” Kent says, his eyes on Bitty’s plate.  “After – everything, I figured there wasn’t a way it could ever happen.  When we started talking again, it was…” he looks up, meeting Jack’s eyes across the table.  Bitty takes another bite of quiche.  “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Jack sucks in a breath.

“I’m sure you would’ve kept on hating me, or being terrified of me, or whatever,” Kent says, glancing at Bitty.  “And I wouldn’t get any of this.  I tried to forget how important you are, Zimms, but I couldn’t, and Eric, I don’t want to have to make myself pretend I don’t want you.”

Bitty smiles shakily and reaches for Kent’s hand again, lacing his fingers with Kent’s larger ones.

“I’ve been in love with Kent since we won the Memorial Cup,” Jack says, staring at the quiche in the middle of the table.  “I’ve been in love with Bitty since playoffs last year.”

Bitty stares at him, his eyes wide.  He knew Jack liked him, at least a little – Jack _did_ kiss him just yesterday – but he didn’t figure that Jack _loved_ him.

Jack loves him.

“We don’t know each other super well,” Kent says, squeezing Bitty’s hand.  “So I don’t, y’know, but… I could.  I could see that happening.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Bitty mutters, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Stop it.”

It’s a little blurry, but he can see Kent grin and look at Jack.

“It doesn’t take much to get there,” Jack says, and Bitty sniffles.

“Y’all need to kiss,” he manages to say.

He always figured they had kissed, at least once, while they were in Rimouski.  Even on a dare or something.  But the way they’re eyeing each other across the table – with desire, of course, but also a little bit of apprehension – Bitty thinks he might’ve been wrong about that.

“I can look away if you want,” Bitty says, just to cut the tension before it becomes too much.

Kent laughs, and Jack smiles.  And then they stand up, almost in unison, and lean over the table.  They kiss, Kent’s hand on Jack’s cheek and Jack’s hand buried in Kent’s hair, over the quiche that Bitty made for them.

It’s one of the most beautiful sights Bitty has ever seen.


	4. June

“Hey, sweetheart,” Kent says as he answers the face time request, still stretched out in bed with Kit Purrson tucked in the bend of his knees.  “I thought we weren’t chatting until later?”

“Kent, honey, I’m so sorry,” Eric blurts out.  His face is red, and he’s… _crying_?  Kent’s immediate thought is _shit what did I do_ , and he’s about to ask, when Eric says, “At least you’ll be over here, but—”

“Eric,” Kent interrupts.  “What’re you talking about?”

Eric’s face falls, and he looks even more miserable than he had before.  Fuck, Kent’s really digging the hole deep on this one.

“Did you not see?” Eric asks, his voice all soft and honey-sweet.  “Oh, Kent…”

“See what?” Kent asks again, even though – he thinks he knows, and there’s twin spirals of dread and excitement twisting down his spine.

“You’ve been traded,” Eric tells him.  “To Boston.”

Everything freezes – and then Kent starts laughing.

“I’m serious!” Eric says sternly.  “Would I really joke about this, Mr. Parson?!”

“No, I know you’re serious,” Kent says, rolling onto his stomach.  “Eric, I knew I wasn’t gonna be in Vegas next year.”

“So they told you you’d be traded?” Eric asks.           

Kent shakes his head.  “They didn’t have to.”

Eric makes a hurt noise.

“Don’t worry, Zimms already told me that I played well, they’d be dumb to get rid of me, blah blah blah,” Kent replies, waving his hand.  “But I knew it was coming.”

“At least you’ll be closer,” Bitty says, the beginnings of a smile tucked into the edges of his frown.  “With Jack in Providence and you in Boston…”

“We’ll see each other more than we would’ve,” Kent agrees.  With the immediate sense of urgency gone, he can take a moment to just _look_ at Eric, study how his hair’s growing out a bit, and the tan-sunburn combo spreading over his cheeks and shoulders.  “Who’d they trade me for?”

Eric scoffs.  “First round pick, conditional 2016 pick, Jimmy Hayes, and Ryan Spooner,” Eric spits.  “Like you’re not worth even more than that!”

_That’s what you get when you’re aching to get rid of someone and everyone knows it_ , Kent thinks but doesn’t say.  That’s not really a sentiment Eric’ll understand.  Later, when he talks to Zimms, he can say it.  Zimms knows how the league works.

“I’m gonna have to tweet something,” Kent muses, glancing at the window to his bedroom.  Through a crack in the blinds, he can see the Strip – the buildings that are covered in neon from sunset to sunrise, that shine in the desert sun.

“I’m sending a letter to the Aces,” Eric replies.  “It’s so rude to not even call you to say you’ve been traded!  Wasn’t your GM raised with any manners?”

Kent bursts out laughing, and he’s still laughing when Eric huffs and hangs up the call, and he’s just choking down the last chuckles when the phone call from Zimms comes through.

“I heard,” Kent says as soon as he picks up.

He hears Zimms sigh.

“I’ll be closer to you and Eric.”

“Yeah,” Zimms replies, quiet, and quietly pleased.  “We’ve got five games against each other next year.”

“We can trade off getting tickets for Eric.”

Zimms’s silent, which means he’s either rolling his eyes or thinking of a chirp.  Kent smiles to himself and reaches down to pet Kit’s head.

“I’m happy, Zimms,” Kent admits.  “I’m sad to leave Vegas, but I’m happy that it’s Boston.  I mean, it could’ve been the Canucks.”

“Or the Leafs.”

“Florida would’ve been nice, though,” Kent muses.  “Lots of beaches.  Eric in a speedo when he visits.”

Zimms laughs, low and quiet.

“You both’ve got to come out before I sell my place,” Kent says.  He imagines it – Zimms and Eric sitting on his couch, under the blanket his mama knit for him.  Kit Purrson stalking across their laps, chasing belly rubs from them both.  The lights of the Strip pouring in through the window, catching on Zimms’s cheeks and Eric’s nose and, maybe, if Kent’s lucky, their bare shoulders and backs and…

“Of course,” Zimms replies, like he couldn’t imagine a different answer.  “We’ll talk tonight and book tickets.”

“Yeah,” Kent says.  He pictures taking them to his favorite places – the little restaurants and cafes right off the Strip, that molecular gastronomy place that’ll either amaze Eric or piss him off, Cirque du Soleil, which’ll confuse the hell out of Zimms.

To the pool on the roof of his building.  Maybe down to T-Mobile Arena, to skate with them for the last time before TD Garden becomes home ice.

“Love you,” Kent says.

“Love you, too,” Zimms replies, the smile on his face noticeable in his voice.

“Love you more.”

“I’m hanging up.”

Kent laughs, and then harder when Zimms actually hangs up on him.

He’s happy.  He’s being traded across the country, he’s probably never going to play on the same team as Zimms again, and he has to leave the first city that’s ever felt like home, but for the first time he can remember, he’s _happy_.

It feels like a triumph.  It feels like the sun coming through the window of the kitchen of the haus, when he sat there eating quiche with Eric and Zimms.  It feels like the warmth of all three of them pressed into Eric’s bed, like the three of them sitting on the porch and sipping Eric’s sweet tea.  It feels like…

It feels like it was a long time coming.


	5. Hockey Shit

**The Body Issue:** every year ESPN puts out a magazine with a bunch of naked athletes in it.  Tyler Seguin was in it last year and hockey tumblr died.  Kent Parson would definitely pose nude for the Body Issue.

**Trade Deadline:** the deadline for NHL players to be traded and still play in the playoffs for their new team is the last day of February at 3 pm.  There’s always a flurry of trades and it’s always awful.

**Wildcard space:** in addition to the top three teams from each division, there are also 2 wildcard teams per conference that get into the playoffs.  There’s almost always a battle for it and it’s always awful.

**RFA:** Restricted Free Agent.  It means that your contract is up and you can shop other teams – but the team you’re currently signed with has first dibs on dealing with you, and you can’t shop other teams until after free agency begins (July 1 st).  Quite often, if a team doesn’t want a good player that’s going to be an RFA, they’ll deal them to another team (the new team gets exclusive negotiation rights until free agency, to try to sign them before then).  Kent still has a year until his RFA status kicks in, but it could still factor into a decision to trade him.

**“captain the Pens”** : Sidney Crosby is the captain of the Penguins and he will be until he dies on the ice

**QMJHL:** Quebec Major Junior Hockey League.  The juniors league that Kent and Jack played for (team: Rimouski Oceanic).  We’re existing in the Check Please! universe where juniors players are allowed to go NCAA.

**“just like the Kings”:** the Kings won the cup in 2014 and didn’t make the playoffs in 2015.  It was hilarious.

**“Preds” and “Yotes”:** Nashville Predators and Arizona Coyotes, respectively.

**Edmonton and first overalls:** the Edmonton Oilers have won the draft lottery and gotten the first overall pick a _ridiculous_ number of times, and still continue to suck ass.  They really, really don’t need anymore first overall picks.  Pls draft some good defensemen.

**“playing into June”** : this is how everyone talks about getting to the Cup Final, because those are the only June games.

**Exit interview/locker cleanout:** a couple days after a team’s done (either at the end of the regular season or eliminated from the playoffs) everyone on the team has to go clean out their stall in the dressing room and also do final interviews about the season/contracts/teammates/coaches/etc. and it’s _always heartbreaking_.

**Richards/Jagr/Thornton/Gretzky/Callahan/St. Louis:** Mike Richards (then-Flyers Captain) was traded to the Kings in the 2011 off-season.  Jaromir Jagr (then-Penguins captain) was traded to the Capitals in the 2001 off-seaason.  Joe Thornton (then-Bruins captain) was traded to San Jose in the middle of the 2005-06 season.  Wayne Gretzky, as Oilers captain, was traded to the Kings in the 1988 off-season, and as Kings captain, was traded to St. Louis in the middle of the 1995-96 season.  Ryan Callahan and Martin St. Louis, then-Rangers captain and then-Lightning captain, were traded for each other at the 2014 trade deadline.

**Piche:** a player on Rimouski Oceanic in the set of years Kent and Jack would have, realistically, been on the team.

**Brown/Staal:** Dustin Brown, captain of the Kings.  Eric Staal, captain of the Hurricanes.

**“the awards”:** the NHL Awards are in June in Vegas.  I’m assuming Kent would’ve been up for a reward/recipient of the Rocket Richard trophy or Art Ross or something (highest scorer/most points, respectively)

**“game 7 2OT loss”** : game seven of the cup final induces tears in me.  Both teams are tied at 3 games each and whoever wins that game wins the Cup.  And overtime is sudden death, full periods of play until a goal is scored.  So 2OT is two extra periods of hockey.  I have cried just at the _thought_ of OT in playoff elimination games.

**“the Q”:** QMJHL

**Memorial Cup:** trophy for the CHL playoffs.  The QMJHL is a part of the CHL, along with the OHL and WHL.  The top team from each league and the hosting team all compete for the memorial cup.  Kent and Jack would win, obviously.

**Kent finding out about the trade through the internet:** not uncommon.  Sometimes players find out from the news, sometimes they get a call from their GM/coach, sometimes they get a call from their _new_ GM/coach, sometimes they get pulled out of the middle of a game or practice.  Literally do no GMs have manners.

**T-Mobile Arena/TD Garden:** TD Garden is the Bruins arena.  T-Mobile Arena is an arena on the Strip in Vegas, and will be the home of the new Las Vegas expansion team coming in 2017!  So if a Vegas expansion team had happened earlier, that probs would’ve been their home.


End file.
